


Toxic

by VenatorNoctis



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Alcohol, Bad Sex, Denial, M/M, Manipulation, Mildly Dubious Consent, Sexual Experimentation, bad choices
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-19
Updated: 2019-04-19
Packaged: 2020-01-16 06:38:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,258
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18515944
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VenatorNoctis/pseuds/VenatorNoctis
Summary: Emmanellain doesn't make good decisions when this much wine is involved.How does he say it? This would be hard enough to explain when he had his wits about him, never mind when it's an effort to take hold of his goblet, when his tongue feels heavy and clumsy in his mouth. "Do you ever wish things could be different?"Chlode gives him this conspiratorial look, a little smile teasing at the corners of his lips. "Em, old boy, I'd bet you even Thordan wishes for that sometimes." He winks. "Maybe his problems aren't quite the same as yours and mine, though, eh?"





	Toxic

**Author's Note:**

> I meant to do eight pieces for this challenge and get into the elite four round but then _Emmanellain wouldn't shut up_. Thanks, Em. >_>
> 
> The consent tag is on here just because Emmanellain is too intoxicated to be thinking clearly.

In Emmanellain's defense, the wine is _very_ good. The Haillenartes must have laid in a first-rate cellar before the Calamity for Chlode to still be able to offer his friends such a choice vintage. And so much of it, too; there are several empty bottles on the table by now, and with the rest of the lads off homeward they're not even pretending to pay attention to the card game anymore. It's just the two of them, and the room slowly spinning, and the beautiful bright flush high on Chlode's cheeks where it makes his eyes look bright.

"What's that look for, Em?" Miraculously, one of the bottles yet has more wine to offer, and Chlode is pouring it into Emmanellain's glass. "Don't tell me you're going maudlin now."

"No!" Emmanellain protests immediately, "No, never. It's only..." How does he say it? This would be hard enough to explain when he had his wits about him, never mind when it's an effort to take hold of his goblet, when his tongue feels heavy and clumsy in his mouth. "Do you ever wish things could be different?"

Chlode gives him this conspiratorial look, a little smile teasing at the corners of his lips. "Em, old boy, I'd bet you even Thordan wishes for that sometimes." He winks. "Maybe his problems aren't quite the same as yours and mine, though, eh?"

Emmanellain laughs breathlessly. "Probably not. I mean I certainly hope not." Halone forgive him, Chlode's mouth is _perfect_ , and it's so much harder not to notice when they're drunk.

"Well? Cough it up, then." Chlode takes another drink and the last dark drop of the wine lingers on his lips and Emmanellain is dizzy with it. "You wouldn't have brought it up if you didn't want to tell me about it."

Halone's punishing him already. Emmanellain drains his glass to give himself courage, and his stomach rolls a bit but he breathes through it and it passes. "Sometimes I wish I could—I mean I just want to—" How does he even say it without sounding like he's begging for something he knows he can't have? Chlode's watching him and the words won't come out in the right order and he could just cry, when he's not like to get another chance if he botches this one. "It's not as though—I mean I like girls just fine, it's just—sometimes, I—"

"Get a little curious about handling a lance?" Chlode supplies.

Emmanellain nods, taking the lifeline for what it is: barely the beginning of what he feels, especially at times like this, but a place to start.

"Ah, don't tie yourself in knots over it," Chlode says. "You're hardly the only son of the High Houses who's wanted to do a little experimenting, you know."

"You mean you—"

"I'm not about to go spilling anyone's secrets, old boy." He gestures with his goblet and it's so damnably graceful. "Just know you're not the only one craving a taste."

"With you?" Emmanellain asks before he can bridle his wayward tongue.

Chlode's eyes go wide. " _Oh_ ," he says.

The world drops out from under Emmanellain with a terrible lurch. He's going to be sick. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have—I didn't mean to—I know you don't—" Chlode raises a hand to stop him and he goes quiet. He tries to brace himself for what he knows must be coming, the chilly polite _I think it's time you went home_.

"Em," Chlode says, gently, like he's going to be nice about it, and somehow that's even worse. "You know I'm not into..." He gestures vaguely and Emmanellain watches the way his rings catch the light and tries not to flinch in advance. "What you're into. But if it helps, I'm flattered." 

"Thanks," Emmanellain says weakly. He picks up his glass, finds it empty, puts it down again. Is this really not the end of the world, or is it just that he's too slow to see it coming?

Chlode pours him more wine, like a bloody saint. "How sure are you, anyway?"

"What?" He's too fuzzy in the head to follow and he knows that's not great but he still drinks. It's comforting.

"You know," Chlode says. He glances over at the door like he wants to be sure nobody's eavesdropping, then leans in over the table. "I mean, have you ever _had_ a dick in your mouth?"

Emmanellain _laughs_ out of sheer startlement, the sound high and thin and nervous. "Of course not," he says. "You know how people are, there's gossip about everything. I wouldn't dare."

"Then you don't really know, do you? If you haven't tried." Halone has no mercy, because the only thing worse than awkwardly confessing to Chlodebaimt de Haillenarte is having him then helpfully try to reason it away. 

"I...I suppose," Emmanellain allows, because he doesn't know how to argue, can imagine how awful it would sound to try to defend the point. 

"So what you need," Chlode concludes triumphantly, "is a chance to find out."

"Right," Emmanellain says. "What?"

Chlode looks at him like they're in on a secret. "What you need is a friend who'll be discreet about it, who doesn't mind letting you at the goods so you can see how bent you really are."

Emmanellain's face is hot all the way to the tips of his ears. He can't imagine trying to bring that up, trying to _ask_ someone if he could touch, if he could taste.... "I-I don't suppose you," and his courage fails him at the last second—it's always better to ask for what you might get than for what you really want—and he says, "know anyone who might be willing?"

"I don't exactly keep a dance card of Ishgard's most eligible deviants to hand," Chlode says. Of course he doesn't. He's not like that. He does everything right.

"Sorry," Emmanellain says. "That was stupid of me."

"Oh, Em," Chlode says. Chiding. Disappointed. "You aren't going to ask me?"

First he wants to apologize again, then a moment later to explain himself, but he doesn't trust the words to come out right, and what if—what if he did ask and it weren't a calamity? How much more awkward can things get tonight, after all he's already said and how kind Chlode has been about it?

"Would you?" His voice squeaks a bit. "Would you let me?"

The silence is near enough to still his heart. "I think," Chlode says at last, slowly, "I think I could do that for you."

"Oh," Emmanellain breathes. He can't even move for a moment, just mesmerized by Chlode's handsome face, bright green eyes and long sharp ears. He feels like he coughed up his heart onto the table and instead of brushing it aside Chlode picked it up to hold in his bare hands.

"Right," Chlode says. He pushes his chair back from the table and drops his hands to the buttons of his breeches. "You want to come over here, then?"

Emmanellain's knees hit the floor almost before the question's done. He knows that's wrong; a man should kneel only in fealty to a lord or in worship of the Fury. But he doesn't care, shuffling over to where Chlode sits with his thighs spread and the placket of his breeches folded open. He pushes his smallclothes down, handling himself with casual ease like it's no big deal to have Emmanellain there watching as he works himself hard.

"You like that," he says. "I can see it all over your face."

Emmanellain nods. He doesn't trust himself to speak. He's never been so close to another man's bare flesh, certainly never watched someone pleasure himself, and it feels like his blood is on fire. Is he allowed to touch? He can't look away.

"There," Chlode says, hard enough now to coax his foreskin back and bare the ruddy crown. "That's what you were after, look at you. Go on, give it a kiss."

It's true, isn't it? This is what he was after. Emmanellain leans in, his hands on Chlode's thighs for balance, and presses a kiss to the head of it. The skin is so soft, so smooth against his lips. Chlode's scent makes him dizzy, a mix of sweat and cologne and his own musk. He parts his lips and licks that smoothness, and perhaps it doesn't taste like much but knowing what he's doing is enough to make him ache with desire.

"Fury's grace," Chlode swears the second time Emmanellain licks him. "Get it in your mouth, sweetheart, there's what you're after."

"Mmn," Emmanellain agrees. He has to stretch his jaw wide to fit the thickness of it in his mouth, and it's a little uncomfortable but he wants to, doesn't he? He's wondered for so long. Gods, he has Chlode's shaft _in his mouth_ and the room sways around him a bit when he tries to take more of it at once but he doesn't care.

Chlode's hand settles at the nape of his neck as if to keep him there, as if Emmanellain could possibly want to be anywhere but here. He closes his eyes and tries moving a bit, letting it slide back and forth on his tongue to see if he can get the hang of it. It feels so much bigger than he ever thought it would. His mouth keeps watering, and that's sort of good because it makes moving smoother, but seems a bit embarrassing, too. He's not here to make a mess of Chlode, is he?

"Mmn, like that," Chlode says as Emmanellain settles into a rhythm. "This is really your first time? You're a bloody natural." 

Emmanellain moans his thanks for the compliment. It's hard to believe he's doing so well when he feels so clumsy at it, sloppy and uncoordinated, but he's glad Chlode thinks so. It feels good for him, too—still uncomfortable but at the same time _good_ in a way that has him stiffening in his breeches. He doesn't touch that, though; for one thing, he's not sure he'd have the coordination right now to do himself any good while he's still getting the hang of using his mouth. And he wouldn't want to put Chlode off by taking the liberty, would he? This is fine.

Only he keeps going for a while longer, not really sure how long with this much wine to blunt his senses, and he can't shake the worry that it's taking too long. If he were really so good at it, wouldn't he have provided some satisfaction by now?

He tries to pull up to ask, to make sure he's not missing something, but Chlode's hand is still there at his nape, urging him to stay down. "Don't stop, darling, don't stop now—you're the kind of man who finishes what he starts, aren't you?"

Emmanellain shivers. He wants to be, oh, he wants to finish this so much. He keeps going, despite the ache in his jaw, despite the one time he gets too ambitious and makes himself gag a bit. Eventually it feels like he's in that state people talk about during literal swordsmanship practice, where he can just keep up the motion and feel it and not think about what he's doing.

Chlode makes a noise, the first since they started, a low groan as his length pulses in Emmanellain's mouth—and he's spending, gods, bitter and hot and thicker than cream.

"Done it, haven't you, just swallow it down," Chlode urges, thumb stroking his neck, and Emmanellain does. "There you go, no mess." Chlode lifts his hand free at last. "Much better than worrying about getting stains out of things, mm?"

Emmanellain sits back and does his best to smile. His jaw is damnably sore. "Of course," he says, watching Chlode tuck himself away and get presentable again. His voice sounds a bit funny, too. When he thinks of what he's just done his stomach goes all butterflies. "Chlode," he says, and then can't marshal the wit to continue with any sort of elegance.

Chlode gives him an utterly winning smile, and then his face falls abruptly. "Oh hells, Em, would you look at the time!" He gets up from his chair and offers a hand to help Emmanellain to his feet. "I'm off for the Steel Vigil tomorrow, got to get their defenses sorted out. We're to leave at first light and I really should have been abed hours ago." He clasps Emmanellain's arm, as though nothing has changed, as though he truly doesn't mind. "You understand, don't you, old boy?"

"O-of course," Emmanellain says. Chlode's actually trusted with important things; his father has a lot of faith in his skills. "I, ah, I'll see you after you get back?"

"Count on it," Chlode says firmly.

Emmanellain's out the door of the Haillenarte Manor almost before he knows what's hit him. The cold night air is a shock to his system, making him feel all the evening's indulgences over again in the least pleasant of ways. He has to stop to be sick into a hedge on the way back to Fortemps Manor. He must look a mess when he gets in, from the way the servants who are still up carefully don't make any faces. 

But none of that matters, does it? Chlode gave him a chance, and it went well, didn't it? And they'll see each other again after Chlode gets back from the blasted vigil. He's counting on it.


End file.
